Free It Always Rains on Sundays Page B

Looks as if I’d spoken too soon. Gabriel stared, he waved me over. ‘WELL HELLO PILGRIM’ he bellowed.
    He says that to everybody.
    â€˜So, what’s new with you pilgrim?’ says he in a loud voice.
    I shrugged. He drained off his glass in one gulp, then said ‘cheers.’ God, he’s even drunker than I thought – he pointed at me then ordered another rightaway. His arm settled over my shoulder (that’s another thing I hate).
    I kind’ve shook it off without him noticing.
    Anybody would think we were really big friends.Mind you if I’m truthful most of his attention stayed on the new barmaid, not that I blame him she was quite a looker. ‘Make that doubles my dear’ says he. He gave me a broad wink. She returned his smile with interest – curiously enough the ladies loved him to bits. Let’s face it this guy is no spring chicken (fifty, that’s at least). That said, you can’t fault him on the way he turns himself out. Okay, maybe a bit dandified for my taste, (e.g.) tonight’s ensemble being a chocolate box-pleated jacket and lemony coloured trousers, and yellowy slip-on shoes, finished off with a matching silk cravat and hanky spilling from his breast pocket. However, from then on it kind’ve nosedives – guys with silvery grey hair in a pony-tail, tied with a bow, bit iffy, right.
    Even Cynthia, that one time I got her to go to the Poetry Society annual dinner – she described him as being ‘rather dishy’ (whatever that means). Never again she said, ‘poetry-nuts’ she called us. So, now I don’t even bother asking.
    He lifted his glass, we clinked glasses. ‘Cheers!’ he yelled.
    Meantime his eyes stayed greedily on the young barmaid. She flashed him a smile – I thought he already knew her (her names Karol with a kicking K). Finally he turned, ‘So, what kind of writing are you up to these days?’ (I was sorely tempted to say joined-up). Instead I just said ‘Oh, this and that, nothing really special, y’know.’
    He threw back his head, then laughed, ‘Cagey sod.’
    That’s another thing too, same with poetry – we’velittle in common, him being a hard and fast blank verse merchant – that alone is more than enough to divide us into two different camps. Everything else is classed as doggerel-rubbish as far as Gabriel’s concerned.
    That’s all he ever talks about, either that or getting published.
    What made it worse, about a year ago him winning this really tiny, infinitesimal poetry-prize. Some obscure Poetry Festival someplace, over in Ireland – mind you we all know the Irish, they’d make a sonnet out of a sodding gas bill. After that there’s no holding him, talk about letting it go to his head – I’ll say. You’d’ve thought they’d made him Poet Laureate. All that fuss and palaver, over what exactly, a tiny cup – you’d lose it in your top pocket, it’s no bigger than a leprechauns piss-pot.
    Personally speaking I wouldn’t’ve bothered telling anybody – but that’s me I suppose.
    He stared (he was waiting for me). Gabriel always drinks a good malt whisky, you don’t ask. They keep a special bottle behind the bar just in case. I reordered trying not to wince at the word ‘large.’ We both lifted our glasses. I said ‘Cheers!’ (he said ‘All the best’) – I don’t know which is worse. What bothered me is, about tonight’s cancelled Poetry Society meeting.
    And, that’s curious because what came out next wasn’t what I’d intended. ‘How’s Alison?’ I blurted in what sounded like a large shout. ‘ – Well, I hope?’ I added quickly. I was hoping he hadn’t heard me.
    You tell me – something deep and Freudian no doubt.
    Luckily Gabriel’s too far gone to notice, that and stilltaken up ogling the